Chapter Nine
3 years, 17 weeks, 4 days
Jack Hunter is moving toward me without a shirt on and it is half glorious and half heart-attack-inducing and something in my stomach gurgles like I want to vomit. He smiles, but not like he smiled with Alice. He smiles like he means it, a soft, golden curve of his lips, and it somehow makes him look even stupidly handsomer.
“Jack,” I start, my throat tensing up. “You’re half naked!”
For some reason I’m wearing a low-cut bodice but I can’t remember how I got in one of these. It’s something straight out of the cheap romance novels I caught Jack checking out in the library.
Jack leans toward me, the smell of his honey-spice cologne wafting up, his bright blue eyes piercing into me as he leans down and nuzzles my neck. His lips are soft and warm as he says in a low voice, “Would you like help with the other half?”
And then suddenly the room is red, and there are roses everywhere, and the escort club receptionist I called is sitting behind a desk watching us but for some reason she looks like Kayla, who frowns, sees Jack kissing my neck, and keels over, dead.
“Ahh!” I bolt upright in my bed, sweat cooling on my forehead. It’s the middle of the night. I’m in my own room in reality, hugging the stuffing out of Ms. Muffin. Jack’s abs have disappeared into thin air, and Kayla is not dead. At least I hope not. I reach up to feel my neck and squirm—it seemed so real! I get up and douse my neck with hydrogen peroxide for good measure. Dream Jack or no, any and all Jack-touching needs to be disinfected immediately, lest I catch his fathead shitbaby germs.
The next morning at school, I have to make sure Kayla is not, in fact, dead, because my entire world is ending and I need to talk to her about it. She’s standing under a tree talking to Avery, but I have to make doubly sure she isn’t dead, so I inch up and poke her. In the butt. Several times.
“Isis! What are you doing?”
“Oh, thank God, Kayla. Your fabulous ass is intact! The stability of world peace depends on that ass.”
“Get out of here, creep,” Avery sneers.
“Good morning, Avery-bo-bavery,” I chirp. “How are the pills treating you?”
The other girl she’s talking with looks confused. “Pills? What pills? You have pills and you didn’t give me any, Ave?”
Avery is too busy glowering at me to stop me from dragging Kayla away to a different tree.
“Isis, are you okay?”
“Kayla, do you think Jack is sexy?”
She makes a dying pig squeal and I shake her out of it. Politely.
“I had this nightmare wherein I thought Jack was sexy and you died.”
“O-Oh. Well. I’m not dead! So that’s good, right?” Kayla smiles.
“Oh Kayla, you gorgeous, sugary, incredibly fluffy butterfly, you are of no help to me right now and you have a date with Jack on Saturday at the Red Fern at seven I arranged it and I must go.”
I leave her to chemically combust, and decide to track down the one other person in this school who’d have the patience to listen to my woes about Jack.
I find Wren in the student council office, filling out extremely interesting paperwork. He’s buried behind piles of the stuff. I can barely see tufts of his black hair poking out. I reach into the paperwork pile and shove the two halves aside. Hundreds of them fall off the desk and to the floor. Papers drift through the air like snowflakes. Fat, boring-ass snowflakes. Wren looks up, face slack with shock.
“Whatcha doing?” I ask.
“Dividing up funding for the other clubs,” he whispers, clearly distraught. A paper plops onto his head and slides off dejectedly. I’m respectful for three seconds.
“So anyway, I had this nightmare in which Jack was sexy and Kayla died.”
“I’m . . . sorry to hear that?”
“Don’t you see? Jack cannot be sexy! I can’t even think that subconsciously, or else the war is gonna be lost! The countless troops living in my brain are going to lose morale if they spot a kernel of potential sexiness in Jack. They’ll get confused! I can’t like him. Not even one bit. Or the whole thing falls apart!”
“Might I suggest—”
“And that’s not even taking into consideration my timer!” I crow, bending and picking up the papers for him. “Three whole years, Wren! Three freakin’ years of not being a moron. I can’t . . . I can’t break that! I’ll never be a moron again. I won’t! Sexy thoughts lead to sex and sex leads to love. Or is it the other way around?”
“I’m pretty sure it’s—”
“I can’t do it, Wren!” I wail. “You have to help me! If I start to like Jack, and Jack sees that, he’ll shoot me down because A. we are slightly at war and B. I’m a fat ugly cow and then my timer will get reset and I’ll lose three years and I promised myself I wouldn’t do it again, Wren, I promised!”
I slam the stack of papers back on his desk, my voice trembling.
“What do I do?”
He sighs. “Look, Isis, I don’t know exactly what’s going on, but if the thought of liking someone freaks you out to the point of tears, I don’t think it’s good for you. You should stop.”
“I’m trying!” I shout, then whimper. “I’m trying.”
Wren sighs, getting up and putting an arm around my shoulder.
“It’s understandable. He’s a good-looking guy. Maybe that’s it. Maybe you like him only for his physical traits. We’re teenagers. That level of libido is normal.”
“Oh God, you used ‘libido’ and ‘teenagers’ in a serious sentence; what are you, eighty with a PhD?”
“And,” Wren says sternly to drown my groaning out, “he did kiss you.”
“As a joke.”
“Yes, well . . .”
“It meant absolutely nothing.”
“Yes, but you have to consider that even though your brain knows that, your body may not. And . . . your heart might be a bit confused, too.”
“Pffft.” I buzz my lips. “What heart? That thing I got rid of three years ago? Last I checked, it’s impossible for organs to properly function outside of the body. Unless you put it on a pump. But that’s gross and I definitely did not put my dumb little heart on a pump. I threw it out the window when I was driving to Walgreens—”
“Isis!” Wren grabs me by the shoulders, gazing into my eyes with that unblinking stare. “Listen to me for five seconds!”
I’m stunned into being quiet. Wren, realizing this is a once-in-a-lifetime occurrence, barrels on while he still has the floor.
“It’s okay to like someone,” he says. “Even if it’s superficial. You don’t have to let what my cousin did in the past define you. I know he probably did something horrible. He used to put frogs in the microwave and laugh about it. I know what he’s like. I know he hurt you. But if you’re feeling things for someone again, it’s good. It means you’re healing. You have to let that happen.”
“I don’t like Jack,” I whisper. “I don’t.”
Wren hugs me. I rip out of his grip and put on my brightest smile.
“Seriously, I don’t! Just ignore everything I said, okay? Jack’s just really fun to pick on, you know? I’m just getting that confused is all.”
“Isis—”
“Whatever Jack did must’ve been really bad if you turn pale every time I mention it and Avery has to go to a shrink, huh? He’s probably as bad as Nameless!”
Wren immediately clams up, mouth closing and fists balling.
“Plus Avery was drinking the entire time at the bowling alley, while he was there. And you only looked at him twice, so. Yeah. I think it must’ve been really, really horrible.” I tap my chin thoughtfully. “It has something to do with Sophia, doesn’t it?”
“Stop.”
“Did he do to her what Nameless did to me? I just have to ask Sophia, and—”
“I said stop.” Wren’s voice is so soft and dark I can’t help but shudder. He adjusts his glasses and looks to me with those piercing hazel eyes. “Don’t hide behind what he did, just because what I said to you hits too close to home. Jack’s a better guy than Nameless, I promise you. It just takes a while for people to see that.”
“Avery said he’s dangerous when people start getting to know him.”
Wren sighs. “He’s dangerous, period. There’s a reason he keeps people at arm’s length. He might seem heartless, but he doesn’t want to hurt anyone again.”
“Again? So that means . . . he hurt someone. Did he hurt Sophia?”
Wren flinches. “Look, I’m sorry, Isis, but you need to leave. I can’t talk about this right now. Leave, please.”
I glare furiously at Wren, then turn on my heel and slam the door behind me. So much for Wren helping me. I’m on my own, and the terrifying thought that I might not absolutely hate Jack Hunter’s guts is looming over my brain like a guillotine. And the mystery of Sophia is getting deeper and extremely annoying-er. I have to find that girl, and pronto, if I want any answers.
But do I? Is digging around in Jack’s past really going to help me in not liking him? Of course it will, what am I saying? He clearly hurt Sophia. If I learn just how badly, I can knock this funky idea out of my brain that I think he’s cute at all. It’s the perfect tactic. And until then, I’ll quash whatever idiotic feelings are brewing for him under seven tons of lead bricks inscribed with the word “NOPE.” I have a war to win, a date to get ready for, and an arrogant asshole to finally force into apologizing to the only friend I’ve made so far.
Jack Hunter is not sexy.
Jack Hunter is on my shit list, forever.
And just to let him know it, I sneak into the agriculture building and scoop a plastic Baggie full of goat-and-chicken-and-God-knows-what-other-animal-poop compost, and lob it on his windshield. It’s satisfying for all of two seconds before I realize it’s just poop. It’s not me. The true me wouldn’t do something so basic, so kindergarten. But I’ve been shaken. Something in me is wrong, a loose puzzle piece, so I’m lashing out like a knee jerking in reaction to a doctor’s tap.
The poo splatters on a new Drama Club Wailer Girl love note tucked under the wipers, and before I can do any deeper, extremely helpful soul searching, campus security yells after me. I run. There aren’t many people in the halls, but I almost run smack into Knife Kid as I turn a corner.
“Hi,” I say breathlessly. “Can I use your jacket?”
“Uh . . .” He looks down at the military-inspired green jacket. “Sure. Just be careful. It’s vintage. See the holes with dark stuff around them? Those are stab wounds from Vietnam—”
“Fascinating. Thanks!” I grab it and put it on, running as the sound of footsteps gets loud behind me. I pull a hairband off my wrist, put my hair into a bun, and roll up my jeans. The first person I see around this corner has to cooperate with me, or I’m done for. I have to pretend I’ve been talking to him or her for ages, and I have to face away from security, so they only see my back. I turn left and race down the hall, my heart singing when I see someone with her head in her locker. I pull her arm and slam the locker shut.
“Quick,” I hiss. “Pretend we’ve been talking for a long time, and if security comes by, point in another direction.”
“Why should I?” Avery glowers. My gut sinks, but she’s the only one around.
“C’mon, please!”
“You’ll owe me.”
“That’s great! Sure! I love owing the devil favors!”
Security comes barreling around the corner, and Avery raises her voice.
“So I was telling him not to call me again, but he just couldn’t get the message, you know? Anyway, do you have calc or English after this?”
“Which way did the running girl go?” a balding officer pants. I pull my jacket slightly over my chin. Avery looks him up and down and jerks her thumb behind her.
“Thank you,” the other officer wheezes. They take off down the hall, potbellies swaying. When they’re gone, Avery smirks.
“You’d think they’d be able to remember what a girl with purple streaks in her hair looks like. Idiots.”
“Right, so, what do I owe you? Let’s get this over with, Shelob.”
“Are you comparing me to a giant spider?”
When I nod, she looks mildly impressed, and then suddenly points at me, all business.
“You’re going to help me break into Jack’s house after school today.”
“Wow, uh, normally I would be one hundred percent down for criminal robbery, but I’m sort of having a crisis pertaining to him, and—”
“Wow, duh, I don’t care. Should I call those fat-asses back? Oh, boys! I’ve got someone here—”
“Fine!” I hiss, clamping a hand around her wrist. “Just tell me what to do.”
“Meet me in the parking lot after school. You’ll be driving. Are you in any AP classes?”
“Yes.”
“What am I saying, of course you are, you’re ugly. Bring some unfinished homework from one of those classes.”
And that’s the story of how I was recruited to become a cat burglar by Satan.
...
Jack’s house is fancy and huge—a gravel roundabout at the front cleaving the verdant lawn in two. Rosebushes and massive lilies and apple trees crowd around the house. A hummingbird feeder glows red with sugar-juice as tiny jewel-toned birds flit around, sipping nectar. A gardener waters the roses carefully, his head bobbing as he nods at each one, satisfied they’re growing well. I park across the street like Avery tells me to. She grabs both sides of my face and forces me to look at her.
“Pay attention, weirdo.”
“Paying a thousand attentions,” I squeak.
“You are Jack’s project partner for AP bio. You’ve brought stuff to work on with him. He’s not there right now, and I know this for a fact, because he’s visiting Sophia. His mother is disgustingly sweet. She’ll let you in with no problem. Ask for the bathroom. Go upstairs and enter the second door on your right.”
“I’m gonna puke.”
“Save it for when you get out of the house!” Avery snaps, and lets go of my face. “It’s just Jack’s mom, and his room. It’s not him. I’ll keep watch. If he comes home early, I’ll text you, so put it on vibrate and get the hell out of there if you feel it go off. If he catches you snooping around . . .” Avery shudders. “What he did with your butt crack picture will look nice in comparison. Got it?”
“Got it!” I salute.
“What are you looking for?” she quizzes me.
“A cigar box of letters.”
“And which letter will you take?”
“The most recent one.”
“And what will you do when you get it?”
“Get the hell out of the house and definitely never open the letter even a centimeter.”
“All right. Do this, and we’re even, you hear me? I don’t talk about you chucking shit, and you don’t talk about me going to the shrink’s.”
“That sounds fantastically equal and all, but you’re forgetting the slight problem of he’ll notice a letter is missing because he isn’t dead-ass blind and he’ll ask his mom and he’ll know it’s me and then I’ll get maimed.”
Avery’s frown deepens. She pulls her red hair back and puts it up in a messy ponytail.
“I don’t care,” she finally says.
“I care extremely a lot!”
“I’m not gonna risk his wrath. But you’re already risking his wrath with this stupid war you two have going on. I need to know what’s in the letter, do you understand? If I don’t find out—”
Avery squeezes her doll-like eyes shut.
“Sophia doesn’t talk to me anymore, or let me see her. It’s my fault. What happened back then was my fault, and Jack cleaned it up, okay? But she blames me. And she’s right; I deserve the blame. I was stupid, and I did something I regret. I’ve been working for years on apologizing. Years, weirdo. Five fucking years to work up the guts to say sorry. But if I don’t see what’s in that letter, I might never get the chance to.”
I watch her face carefully. She’s not lying. Her face is something other than disgusted—it’s pained. Her expression is the same as when we met on that sunset bridge. A torrent of emotion is warring inside her, and it hurts like hell.
I might not like her. I might think she’s a jerk and a weasel.
But I know the feeling.
I get out of the car and shut the door behind me.
The Hunters’ gate is intimidating—all wrought iron curves and curlicues painted a fresh white—but it’s open. I stride up the driveway and smile at the gardener, who tips his hat to me. Wren wasn’t kidding when he said Jack’s mom got a large settlement sum—the Hunters are loaded. Jack is loaded. So why the hell is he escorting when he could just ask his mom for money? Unless he doesn’t want to. God knows I know that feeling, too; I hate asking Mom for money. I hate asking anyone for help, period, and as much as I think he’s a small, ugly snarkmancer, I know he’s just like me in that regard. He does stuff on his own, always. He works alone, always.
I ascend the steps and ring the doorbell, and a woman in a canary-yellow sundress answers. She’s so beautiful I’m struck dumb for approximately point five seconds. Her hair is soft and tawny, kept short and bobbed. She’s maybe forty, with a brilliant smile and delicate ivory skin. She’s holding a glass of dirty water in one hand and a dripping paintbrush in the other. Her eyes are the same almond-shaped, piercing, lake-ice blue as Jack’s, but hers are joyous, whereas Jack’s are always dimmed by boredom.
“Hi! How can I help you?” She beams, slopping a bit of water as she balances the door open with one foot. Her socks are rainbow-striped, and it somehow puts me more at ease.
“Uh, hi, Mrs. Hunter? I’m Jack’s lab partner in AP bio, Isis Blake. We were supposed to work on a project together today?” I brandish the papers. Her face falls.
“Oh, shit! I-I mean, darn!” she corrects herself quickly. “You know what? Jack left a while ago, but he’ll be back soon. Why don’t you come in and have some tea. Do you like tea? Or are you a coffee person? I can make coffee, just be warned it tastes like ass and looks like ass—I mean, butt.”
I laugh, and her concerned face at swearing in front of a teenager melts to sheepish amusement.
“I’m sorry. I hope Jack warned you I have a bit of a potty mouth. It’s my one fatal flaw. Well, that and my uncanny ability to burn everything I touch on a stove. I promise I’ll be on my best behavior.”
“It’s fine.” I smile wider. “Adults who don’t swear make me uneasy.”
“Me, too,” she agrees breathlessly. She struggles to hold open the door, so I open it for her. “Thanks. Come on in!”
I can’t help the whistle that escapes my lips when I see the foyer. A massive flight of stairs leads up, the carpets are rich and red and probably Turkish—the country Turkey because turkeys can’t make rugs—and there are hardwood floors and huge french windows letting in light and everything smells like lavender and is that a picture of Jack in his diapers oh my God he looks like a fat little Buddha.
“He looks like a fat monk,” Mrs. Hunter says, hovering over my shoulder.
“I was— I was just thinking that!” I say. “Like a Buddha or something.”
“I used to call him all sorts of names.” She sighs. “He was too young to understand them, of course, and I was so sleep-deprived because of his crying I was ready to strangle someone, so instead of going crazy, I’d threaten him in a sickly sweet voice and he’d just smile and coo at me. Horrible of me, I know. Maybe that’s why he’s turned out the way he is.”
“Weird?” I offer.
“Oh, definitely weird. Weird is a Hunter specialty.” Her eyes twinkle as she leads me into the airy, bright kitchen. “He was such a happy baby. But I worry now. He’s become mostly just sad.”
She shakes her head as if to clear it and fills a kettle with water. “Is mint tea okay?”
“Yeah.” I settle on a barstool. “I mean, I don’t want to intrude, you seemed really busy . . .”
Mrs. Hunter laughs. “Busy? Not to be modest, but I can afford to never be busy, ever. Though I admit, I miss the office sometimes.”
She places the paintbrush and the water down, and it’s then I notice the canvas in the room, facing some windows. Paints smear over a pallet, dozens of paintbrushes sticking up here and there in jars of half-dirty water. The painting itself is pretty—a horse of some kind. Mrs. Hunter rushes over to it and turns the canvas around.
“Oh no, no, no! It’s not finished yet! You can’t look.”
“Right, sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry. It’s me. I have this stupid thing where I get nervous when people see my unfinished works. Not that they’ll be any good when they’re finished, either.”
“That one was beautiful, though.”
She flushes. “Thank you. I started taking classes a month ago. I liked them, but I dropped out because all the teacher wanted me to paint were ugly, soulless little watercolor landscapes. No feeling! No passion!”
“Horses have tons of passion. Like, seventeen whole passions.”
“Exactly!” She claps. “You understand. It’s more fun to paint them than a bunch of boring trees.”
A tiny whirling dervish of canine madness streaks into the kitchen, making soft whoof noises at me and wagging his tail. He’s pitch black, with cute button eyes and a damp nose he mashes against my ankle in an attempt to either gauge how long it would take for him to chew through my Achilles tendon, or to discern what other dogs I’d passed on the street in the last seventeen years of my life.
“Darth! Down!” Mrs. Hunter snaps. The dog obediently wags his butt hard and jumps onto the barstool next to me. Mrs. Hunter grabs a dishrag and whips it at him, and he jumps off and excitedly barks before doing several determined laps around the kitchen for no apparent reason.
“He’s so cute!” I say. “Darth is his name?”
“Short for Darth Vader. I mean, he’s all black, I’d just seen The Return of the Jedi, it made perfect sense at the time!”
“It’s way better than Fluffy.”
“Right?” She smiles. “He’s a mutt. Half Yorkshire terrier and half sugar-high chipmunk.”
I laugh. Jack’s mom is officially cool. Or at least she’s trying hard to be, and in most adults that would make me roll my eyes, but in her scatterbrained way it’s endearing. The kettle dings, and Mrs. Hunter pours two cups of tea, then slides one to me.
“Your kitchen is amazing. The whole house is,” I try.
She sips and smiles. “You think? Truth be told I don’t use the kitchen much—it’s Jack who does most of the cooking. I just burn things and get paint everywhere. It makes him so mad.”
She laughs, and I laugh trying to imagine Jack’s screwed-up, exasperated face as he cleans paint off the counters. I burn to ask her a bunch of questions about Jack. Here she is, the woman who carried him for nine months and put up with his crap for seventeen more years. She knows everything about him, I bet—how often he wet himself, what he was afraid of as a kid, what stupid-looking costumes she forced him into for Halloween. And for some reason, I’d really like to know that, too. And not just to use as blackmail material.
I shake my head. Focus. Focus! She probably knows about Sophia. My fingers twitch around my cup. Shut up, reflexes. This is no time to act up. Keep those wanton desires for knowledge inside, where she can’t see.
“So you and Jack must be friends, then?” Mrs. Hunter clears her throat. Darth Vader, finally exhausted by his valiant efforts to sniff every part of me, plops down at her feet.
“Ah . . . hahaha.” I laugh nervously. “Not exactly.”
“I understand. He’s really hard to get along with, very withdrawn, a little snappish sometimes. He wasn’t always like that, but somewhere around middle school he started changing. Hormones, I guess. And without a father—”
She cuts off, staring at a space over my shoulder for a few moments. She shakes her head and sighs.
“I’m sorry. I’m babbling.”
“No, it’s okay,” I rush to say. “I mean, it’s not okay he doesn’t have a dad, or that your husband died— I mean, uh . . . crap.”
“It’s all right.” She chuckles. “No need to be careful on my part. I miss Oliver, God knows I do. But after fifteen years, I can say his name without breaking down. That’s an improvement, right?”
“Definitely.” I nod. “I’ve . . . I’ve got someone like that, too. Someone whose name I can’t say.”
“Oh, honey, I’m sorry. Losing someone is so terrible.”
“I didn’t lose him, he . . . he drove me away.”
It’s a personal thing to say. But Mrs. Hunter’s gentle presence makes me feel like I can say anything. She puts her hand on mine and pats it.
“What idiot boy would break such a pretty girl’s heart? One who doesn’t deserve you, that’s who.”
I pull my sleeve down over my arm and force a small smile. Pretty. She said it so offhandedly, like it was true. But it’s not. Of course it’s not.
“I have to use the restroom,” I start. “Where . . . ?”
“Oh! Sure.” She gets out of her chair and gestures. “Right down the hall, through the living room, and to your left.”
“Thanks.”
I trot down the hall, making a show of walking with loud footsteps so she thinks I’ve gone down it all the way. I climb the stairs as silently as I can and inch the second right door open, sliding through when it’s just big enough to accommodate my butt.
Jack’s room is dim. The walls are painted dark blue, and dark blue curtains hang over the massive windows. The carpet is black, and the bed is king-size and done neatly in all blue, too. But the blueness isn’t what weirds me out; it’s how clean it is. There’s not a single piece of dirty laundry lying around. His desk is organized neatly—pencils in a cup, even. His bookshelf isn’t alphabetical, but there are tons of impressive books on it; classics, some manga, and a small section of books fitted with paper-bag book covers. I pull the cover off one and snigger. Romance. He’s got a little section dedicated to it, and probably covered them so his mother wouldn’t see. They must be Sophia’s favorites. There’s a TV and a PlayStation in the corner, and an Xbox. His computer is a laptop, sitting on his bed as if he just closed it to leave.
And the smell of him is everywhere.
It’s the smell of sleeping and studying and reading, of skin cells and rumpled clothes, of being a teenage boy but being a weird, clean one, who bathes with a particular type of soap and uses a particular cologne made of mint and honey that overlays his sweat. I don’t even know if it is cologne anymore. It might just be how he smells, naturally. But it’s everywhere, and it’s intoxicating. My hands are sweating more and more with every inhale. It’s toying with my nerves—I feel like any second I’ll turn around and he’ll be standing there, glowering and plotting my ultimate demise.
I wonder if his mom knows what he does for a job? Even if he wanted to have his own savings, which I respect, he could just get a normal part-time job like the rest of us. He didn’t have to go straight to escorting. With his looks, anybody would hire him. He could model! He could act! He could sell chicken wings and rake in the dough as ladies flocked to the counter daily just to see his face. Why escorting? I know it’s good money, or so I’ve researched. Arguably, sex workers (or sort-of sex workers, in Jack’s case) get way more money than any vanilla job on the market, except for, you know, stockbrokers and doctors and the like. Jack isn’t stupid—if he chose escorting, it was probably for that reason. But why would he need a lot of money, fast?
I shove the confusion into the time-out corner of my brain. You are being incredibly risky, Isis. You are asking big huge why questions while in the heart of enemy territory and last time I checked that gets people shot and killed. You’re the general! The war depends entirely on you! If you’re captured, it’s over!
Determined, I clench my fist and look around the room. Avery said it would be somewhere obvious, but still hidden. Thanks, Ave. That is basically extremely useful advice. I check under the bed, in the desk drawers, in his closet. Nothing. I’m running out of time. If I don’t get back downstairs quick, Mrs. Hunter will know something’s up and come looking for me. There’s only one place left—his dresser. I inch the drawers open and rummage through all of them. Except the underwear drawer. That thing can go to hell. At least he doesn’t fold his clothes precisely, because frankly, the serial killer level of this room doesn’t need any further reason to go up.
And that’s when I find it. Mashed behind a bunch of shirts is a hard wooden box. I pull it out, the sweet smell of tobacco wafting up from the intricately carved Cuban cigar box. It was his father’s, or so Avery said. I briefly wonder how she knows so much about Jack when they don’t speak at all. They obviously knew each other in the past, but how well? Probably very well.
Whatever he did must have been unforgivable, if Avery and Wren are so afraid of him now. But Avery did something awful, too.
Just what the fuck happened among the three of them?
I shake that thought out for the millionth time and open the box. Inside is a stack of carefully arranged letters, each on the same pink stationery with clouds around the edges. I take the topmost and open it slightly to check the date to make sure it’s the most recent. It is. I shove the box back behind the shirts and hesitate before closing the drawer. Who even writes letters in this day and age? It’s so old-fashioned and, as much as I hate to admit it, romantic. Finally, I have something from Sophia in my hands. The illusive, mysterious Sophia is right here, waiting for me to read her words. It would be so easy to just pry the letter open a little more. Just one sentence. One sentence never killed anybody. Except it has, probably, somewhere down the line of thousands of years of human existence, but like hell that’s gonna stop me.
The handwriting is curly, elegant, and very girlie.
Dear Jack,
Can you believe it’s October already? I put up a string of orange Christmas lights and paper bats over my bed. You’ll see it when you come next time—it’s really getting me into the spooky vibe. The nurses are saying we’ll carve a pumpkin and put it on my windowsill. I’m going to give it a Fu Manchu mustache and call it Mr. Miyagi. Or I’ll make it Hello Kitty. Which do you think would scare more people on the street below?
I’m doing well! Dr. Fenwall thinks I’ll be well enough for a day out after my next round of treatments. We should go somewhere you want to go this time. And don’t argue! I dragged you to the carnival last time and I know you hate it so you can drag me wherever you want and I won’t complain at all! Promise. Okay, maybe a little whining. But only when my feet start to hurt or I see something cute I want. ;)
She really is sick. But she sounds so cheerful and sweet, I can’t help but like her already. And Jack at a carnival? I can only imagine the intensity of his glares whenever someone would try to offer him cotton candy or pull him into a game of ring toss. And on the Ferris wheel? I scoff. He’d be bored the whole way through. He’s a party pooper like that. Still, Sophia seems to really like him. She sees beyond it, somehow.
I know you’ve been feeling down lately and working extra hard for me, but don’t worry. Dr. Fenwall says he’s talked with the billing department, and they’ve got a grant just for people like me. So it’s okay if you don’t work for a while. I’ll apply to it, and I know I’ll get it. That way you can just relax and have fun instead of worrying all the time.
I munch my bottom lip. Working? Is that why . . . is that why he works as an escort? To pay her hospital bills? Can’t her parents pay them? Does she have parents at all?
Anyway, I’m so happy to hear about the new girl. Isis, you said her name was? I know, I know, you hate her and you can’t see why hearing about her makes me so happy, but I am!
My heart jigs around in my chest. She’s talking about me!
But Jack, really. When was the last time someone affected you like this? You never talk about your classmates. She’s the first one you’ve mentioned to me. She must have made quite the impact on you. She sounds like so much fun. I’m so, so happy you’ve met your match. Yes, you heard me. Match. She’s kicking your butt, and you better step up if you want to win!
That’s why I’m happy. You have someone to fight against, and I know how happy that makes you, in a weird, competitive, perverse way. You always used to complain about how everyone at your school was so stupid and boring. You don’t have many friends. And I prayed every day you’d find someone who’d give you a run for your money, who’d make you feel alive again, who might pique your interest enough for you to become friends. Well! There she is! You can thank me later. You’ll let me meet her, won’t you? I’d really like that.
Anyway, I better finish this and send it off. Naomi poked her head into my room and caught me writing this at four in the morning. Heehee.
I miss you every day.
Yours,
Sophia
I close the letter and wince. I feel like I’ve violated some sacred barrier by reading it now that I’ve finished it. I have to get back downstairs and leave. Holding this thing in my hand is making a sick guilty feeling pool in my stomach with every passing second.
I take out my phone. If I snap a picture, Avery can see the letter without me taking it. It’s the perfect solution. If I can put the letter on something flat—
I whirl around and collide with someone’s hard chest. Frigid blue eyes blaze with the coldest fire I’ve ever seen, the face they belong to carved in shadow and rage.
I squeak and shield myself. “Leave a pretty body for my mom.”